


i don't know (so don't ask me why)

by heck_but_an_account_babeyy



Category: Far Cry 4
Genre: (inshallah), Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, LORD I DON'T EVEN LIKE ANGST, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Oh Boy We're In For A Ride, Trans Ajay Ghale, asexual rabi ray rana, bad jokes hell fuckin yeah!!!!, is that going to be remotely relevant? inshallah man. inshallah, mentions of my deputy ava :)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:40:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29764608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heck_but_an_account_babeyy/pseuds/heck_but_an_account_babeyy
Summary: "I am like, madly in love with you, Ajay Ghale," he says, and Ajay's breath pulls from him in a softoh.Rabi grins. "And I really really want to be your boyfriend so I can kiss you on your wonderful lips."Neither of them say anything for a while. Just the silence stretching between them thick as chaku on a hook. Rabi’s smile fades, and fades, until there’s nothing left of it at all - his lips twist into a flat, almost-trembling line, and he averts his gaze to the sunglasses again. There's something rising in Ajay’s throat, but the words got lost somewhere between Rabi's big brown eyes and "I'm madly in love with you, Ajay Ghale": so he sits and he stares and not a muscle in his body even twitches."...Okay," he chokes out, "that's great," - and he goes back to reading the manual.
Relationships: Ajay Ghale/Rabi Ray Rana, Amita & Ajay Ghale
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	i don't know (so don't ask me why)

**Author's Note:**

> HI I'M VERY SORRY. title is from [La Seine,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S2V6jF79X7Q&list=PL1BPZFtLpOu1wK_jkdRPtGDTSiaE-M5m7&index=51) from the monster in paris movie which i watched every weekend, back in the day :')

"Can I be your boyfriend?" Rabi blurts on one hot Sunday afternoon. Ajay, slung over the arm of their ratty sofa with his nose buried in a car repair manual (even if the text was in English, it would be way too small for him to read it - Jesus, who made these?), looks up at him and blinks. Hard. Rabi is wringing his hands, and refusing to look at him, and he's _gotta_ be kidding him, come on. _What?_

"I mean, I've been thinking," Rabi starts. Then stops. Rakes a hand through his hair. Flounders for a second. "Actually I haven't been thinking at all. That was a complete lie. I really, really didn't think this through, and now I'm regretting it. Okay. I could've at least talked this through with Chotu, made a plan of action, you know? He's not a great listener but he never interrupts me either, would've told me that this was an awful, terrible, shitty fucking idea and I should've just-" 

"Rabi." He falls silent under Ajay's incredulous stare. "Breathe." 

He sucks in a giant lungful of air, chokes on his own spit, covers it up with a cough and whips off his sunglasses. They make a gentle scratching noise as he slides them back and forth across the table. "Alright. Alright, breathe, I can do that, I'm pretty sure I do it every day. If I didn't then there would be no Radio Free Kyrat, and that would _devastate_ the country, man, send it spiralling into a depression worse than the civil war. What would my viewers do without me accompanying them during their darkest hours? Probably keel over and die, that's what."

Taking a deep breath, he slides the sunglasses across the table. They land on the floor with a thunk. Rabi's smile is strained and looks like it physically hurts - but his eyes are way too fucking sincere for a man who makes piss jokes on live air for a living.

"I am like, _madly_ in love with you, Ajay Ghale," he says, and Ajay's breath pulls from him in a soft _oh._ Rabi grins. "And I really really want to be your boyfriend so I can kiss you on your wonderful lips. I bet they’re the total opposite of Ranjit’s drunk pickup lines: smooth. And they don’t make girls at the bar want to die. Oh my god I am- wow. That was. That was a joke, alright, what the shitting hell. Okay I’ll shut up now." 

Neither of them say anything for a while. Just the silence stretching between them thick as chaku on a hook. Rabi’s smile fades, and fades, until there’s nothing left of it at all - his lips twist into a flat, almost-trembling line, and he averts his gaze to the sunglasses again. There's something rising in Ajay’s throat, but the words got lost somewhere between Rabi's big brown eyes and "I'm madly in love with you, Ajay Ghale": so he sits and he stares and not a muscle in his body even twitches.

"...Okay," he chokes out, "that's great," - and he goes back to reading the manual. 

A moment of quiet - then a harsh strangled sound, and Rabi bolts to his feet. Ajay's eyes stay glued down. 

"Nice seeing you man," Rabi garbles with a voice wavering enough to make Ajay's heart ache - and he's rushed out before he has time to blink, the door clicking shut behind him.

Maybe the something rising in his throat was a little more than sentences. "Holy shit," Ajay gasps, "holy shit-" he staggers out the back door and pukes his fucking guts up. Loses track of how long it's been after the eighth time he has to heave against the gritty concrete wall. 

When his stomach is aching and empty and it tastes like he's spent an hour sucking on the chimney of Rochan Brick Factory, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sags against the wall. Fishes his radio out of his pocket. Flicks through to the right channel. He doesn't wait for her to speak.

"Rabi's in love with me," Ajay rasps.

Amita's sigh is long, exasperated, and utterly unsurprised. 

"You're telling me," she says, and he just _knows_ her lips are curling into some approximation of a smile. "When's the wedding, hm? I assume you'll be inviting the entire country, what with him being a… _celebrity._ Underground radio host. Sad little hermit man. Whatever we're calling it these days. He’s supported me for years, though, so I suppose I’ll give credit where it’s due.”

"Amita."

"I'd prefer if we didn't hold the ceremony at a monastery or temple - you know it would be bad for my image, having my right hand man openly endorse such practices. How about Avinash Primary School? It's a big place, pretty, lots of foliage and beautiful scenery around. Besides, everybody adores seeing kids at weddings. Oh, do your vows in the new courtyard, it'll be wonderful! And it'll give the people a chance to appreciate the wonders of our expanded education budget..." 

_"Amita."_

"Yes, Ajay?"

"We're not together." 

There's a pause; a moment of careful static. Then: "Why on _earth_ not?" Amita demands. "I thought you two were-" 

"-crazy in love with each other, yeah, I get it," he says. Laughs, but it sounds more like a whimper. "Uh. I just- I didn't know what to do. So I just kept quiet, and he left. …I, uh." He swallows back the sudden ache in his throat. "I think he's pretty upset with me." 

A heavy silence. She sighs. "Do you love him?" 

"...I think so. I don't really know what it's meant to feel like, but."

He thinks of all the warm bright memories of lounging in the studio with Rabi, lukewarm beer in hand, as Rabi lit up the whole room with his chatter and grins. Of the days Ajay charged into the studio at 6am, dragged him out of bed, and taught him to fish in the crisp Himalayan air, lounging on the bank of the the nearby lake clear enough to be glass - alone together, in the blissfully quiet nook of Kyrat that Rabi somehow uncovered. Ajay taught him to fish like Ava taught him to fish, all those years ago; when both of them were young and bony and just wanted to help their moms put food on the table.

(Hope County was warm gold, a close community full of people who adored the Ghale family, welcomed them into their homes at every opportunity that presented itself. Kyrat is more sharp edges and harsh greens - a country of wary strangers that seems to grow bigger, lonelier, wilder every day - but some of the struggles never changed. Still gotta eat, somehow. Still has to help out gaunt kids that look too much like his childhood friends. Nowadays, the only difference is the gun clasped tight in his calloused hands.)

Clearest of all, Ajay remembers taking him on a road trip down to Pokhari Ghara so his favourite person could see his favourite place, and watching Rabi with a gentle smile as the guy bounced on the balls of his heels, sprinting from the studio to the car with boxes of mithai and bottled water and the shitty wolf-hide blanket that Ajay had sewn him for his birthday. (A birthday that he only mentioned in passing, but how could Ajay forget?- and a blanket that caused Rabi to barrel him into a hug that knocked them both to the floor.) Way too much food for a 30km journey - but god, it could’ve been years since Rabi had strayed further than five minutes from the relative safety of home.  
So they made a thing out of it. Slept in the safehouse overnight, just them and their copious amount of snacks; giggled and whispered, stuffed themselves with gone-off grainy burfi, until Rabi collapsed in his lap and Ajay drifted off while playing with his hair. Rabi snored like a bastard and Ajay clung to him tighter than a sweaty octopus- but it was perfect. He hasn't slept like that since Iraq, since his body forced itself to shut down from sheer exhaustion, his mind kicking and screaming the whole way; he hasn't felt that safe since mom passed.

It’s Rabi. It’s been him since Ajay stumbled into his studio and offered to bomb the shit out of a couple propaganda centres. Since he shoved Sabal away, hard into the crumbling brick wall, and spent hours scrubbing the feel of his lips off his skin.

It’s always only been Rabi.

"Yeah,” Ajay says. “I think I love him." 

"You think you love him. You _think."_ Another sigh. "Oh, Ajay. What am I going to do with you? 

"I don't know," he says- and he doesn’t realise he’s crying until a fat, hot tear drips onto the radio. Shit. He sniffs loudly and smears his trembling palm across his forehead. "Fuck, Amita. I don't know."


End file.
